FLash Fiction 4. That Sun.

 The Sound Cascades, the volume envelopes. Music burdens by the weight of the gear. The old stage found clear of the soundcheck. The floor had a resin of syrup thin from the forgotten night. Where was the Sun of the previous hours, staining my arms a sepia, as if I owned a farm or someplace to escape the guitar I always relearn to store in the thick wild.  A slight tinnitus overtakes the cool air. Where are the rays forgotten on the ground.

The history of the senses, the emotions, the trivia of the design, and the facts that I've learned to balance it with a cold strum